


Three men and a baby

by AnythingButPink



Series: Bridge to the future [1]
Category: The Professionals
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-24
Updated: 2014-01-24
Packaged: 2018-01-08 23:50:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1138934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnythingButPink/pseuds/AnythingButPink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An unexpected package on their doorstep has serious consequences for the lads.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three men and a baby

They lay where they had fallen on the sofa. Bodie sprawled on the cushions, head resting on the padded arm, Doyle sprawled on Bodie, head resting on a muscled chest. Bodie's fingers were still caught in Doyle's curls, Doyle's arm was wrapped around Bodie's chest.

They had stumbled in from an op at 2am, sat down for Scotch and tumbled into sleep shortly afterwards. Neither the electric whine of the milkfloat nor the accompanying jangle of milk bottles at six had disturbed their slumbers.

The postman's cheery, off-key whistling hadn't made an impression either. But now there was a sound penetrating both flat and sleep. An unpleasant noise, repetitive and grating. Doyle grimaced and tried to stretch without waking his mattress.

For a moment, he wondered if it was the security alarm, but even as he slid off Bodie and towards his gun he realised his mistake.

It was a baby. A very cross baby judging by the racket it was making. He yawned and stretched hard, shaking his head at Bodie's ability to sleep through the wailing. He wondered whose baby it was. Couldn't be his downstairs neighbour. Mrs Anderson was in her sixties and also away on a cruise with her latest gentleman friend. Unlikely to be upstairs for that matter. Prof Deacon was on an American lecture tour. Bodie and Doyle were taking it in turn to feed his cats.

Where the hell was the crying coming from? He picked his way round the abandoned jackets, shoes and holsters on the carpet and headed for the front door. It sounded as if the baby were sitting on his doorstep. He laughed to himself – sleep deprivation was really taking its toll on him.

He unlocked the door and pulled it open. The lung-shredding yelling hit him at full strength and he winced before looking down to find a Moses basket containing a red-faced, bawling infant and a brown envelope. Next to the basket, stood a small suitcase.

“What the hell is...” came Bodie's voice over his shoulder. “Oh. Fuck.”

Doyle dug an ungentle elbow into him. “Language, sunshine. Not in front of the baby.”

He crouched down and standing, carefully lifted the child to his shoulder, rocking it and making shushing noises. Bodie's eyebrows very nearly met his hairline. Doyle continued to sway from side to side, murmuring gentle imprecations for quiet, and jerked his head at the envelope.

Bodie dropped to his haunches and picked up the envelope. One was word was written on it in an untidy scrawl – Ray.

Bodie held it up for his partner to see. “It's for you-hoo.”

“Well, read it then. Unless _you_ want to do your best Mary Poppins.” The baby had quietened now and was chewing on the shoulder of Doyle's T-shirt.

Bodie scowled and did as he was told. “Dear Ray,” he read, in his best Sunday School voice, “This is Zoe, she's your daughter...” Bodie's voice went up an octave at the words and he looked in disbelief at Doyle.

Doyle rolled his eyes. “As if, Bodie. I'd never cheat on you. Whoever this little sweetheart is, she's not mine.” He turned the baby so that Bodie could see her. She held a fistful of green T-shirt in one hand and was chewing on the fist and the cloth as if her life depended on it. Now that she'd stopped crying, her skin had returned to its natural creamy colour. She had delightfully chubby cheeks, large blue-green eyes and a soft thatch of silky black hair.

“Nah,” said Bodie, “can't be yours. She's far too beautiful.” He beamed at his partner and then at the baby.

Doyle glared at him, but inwardly sighed with relief. “What else does it say?”

Bodie stopped chucking the baby under the chin and turned his attention back to the page of A4. “I can't look after her at the moment, so I'm leaving her with you until I can collect her. I've put bottles, baby formula and nappies in the suitcase. Please tell her I love her. Natalie, x PS – when life gives you lemons Ray, one doesn't always make lemonade.”

A faint smile spread across Doyle's face. “Bring that lot in, Bodie. We need to feed this little one before she destroys my shirt and find out what's really going on.”

***

Fifteen minutes later, Bodie was sat on the sofa cradling the baby in one arm and holding a bottle of formula milk in the other. Zoe was draining it in a manner that put Doyle in mind of his partner with a pint after a bad day.

He switched on a desk lamp and held the letter over the hot bulb. A huge grin spread across his face.

“You're looking pleased with yourself, Sherlock.”

“As well I might, my son.” He moved the paper around over the heat to be sure he hadn't missed anything.

“Well?”

“You need to wind her.”

“What?”

“She's finished her bottle. Stick that cloth on your shoulder, prop her up and rub her back until she burps.”

“You're pulling my leg!”

“You're the one getting up to soothe her if she has colic in the night because you didn't wind her.”

Bodie rolled his eyes, covered his shoulder with the muslin Doyle had thrown at him earlier, and did as he was told.

“So?”

“Lemon juice.”

“Really? Bit amateurish.”

“She did what she could with what she had.”

“Who? Stop talking in damn riddles, Ray.”

Doyle lowered himself on to the coffee table and caressed Bodie's cheek. “I wanna tell you a story,” he said in his best Max Bygraves voice.

Bodie settled himself into the corner of the sofa, rubbing and patting Zoe's cardigan-covered back as if he'd been born to the job. Doyle felt his heart pinch with love, but he forced himself to concentrate.

“When I was a beat copper I met a lot of runaways. Come to seek their fortune in the big city, or just running away from the horrors of home. One of them was a young girl called Natalie. Not that that was what she was telling her punters. Had her hair cut short, bound her breasts, shoved a pair of socks down her pants and called herself Nathan.”

“Didn't the blokes notice?” said Bodie incredulously.

“The kind of selfish bastard who'd bugger a teenage boy for cash in a public lav, ain't the kind to be paying any attention to reciprocity, Bodie.

“Anyway, I met Nat one afternoon when a punter turned nasty and gave her a good kicking. She didn't want to talk – thought all coppers were bent ... the _wrong_ kind of bent Bodie … but I won her over and nicked the bastard. Then I found her somewhere to live, got her back to school.”

Bodie's head flicked round at a surprisingly loud noise near his ear. Zoe burped again and stuck her tiny pink tongue out. Bodie crossed his eyes and stuck his tongue out too, before returning his attention to Doyle.

“Was it all happily ever after?”

“Yeah. Until now. She's been working in a shelter, helping other people get their lives back on track. This,” he flapped the letter, “says she overheard two men talking about a shipment coming in tonight. She didn't think they'd spotted her, but they were back the next night asking after her. Guy on duty wasn't stupid, told them he couldn't give out details about staff and rang her to warn her.”

“Why didn't she just talk to you? Why the cloak and dagger … and baby?”

“She doesn't want them to know that we know. She's going in to work this afternoon and when they ask her she'll pretend she doesn't know anything. She's given us the time and location for the shipment. We just have to keep Zoe safe until the lads pick up the scumbags.”

“Oh, is that all?”

“Sarcasm doesn't become you, sunshine.”

Bodie pulled a face at him.

“Anyway,” said Doyle, “you're a natural, look.”

Bodie craned his neck and saw two dark-lashed crescents against unblemished skin, a tiny fist resting on his chest, as the baby slept. In spite of himself Bodie smiled and wrapped a protective hand across her back.

“So, what now?”

“I call Cowley. You keep being a good mattress.” He leaned across and kissed Bodie's cheek. “You are a _very_ good mattress mate.” He winked and headed for the telephone.

***

George Cowley looked at the scene bemused. Bodie, the bringer of death, the man whose Gorgon-gaze was almost as deadly as his aim (with fists, feet, guns, grenades, canisters of lethal neuro-toxic gas), was asleep on the sofa, a look of unusual serenity on his face and a sleeping infant in his arms.

Doyle poked his head around the doorframe. “D'you want to talk in the kitchen, sir? Don't want to wake the babies...”

Cowley crossed the floor towards him. “Aye,” he said softly, “though you'd better hope Bodie is sleeping as soundly as he looks or you might regret that wisecrack.”

“I've seen him fight one-handed without dropping his pint. I don't think he'd be quite so cavalier with a baby though, sir.”

“With Bodie who really knows?”

Doyle inclined his head in agreement and pushed a tumbler of whisky across the table towards his boss.

“Thank you.”

Cowley sipped the Scotch and loosened his tie with a finger. “So what's your plan, Doyle? I presume you do have one?”

“Yes sir. I go undercover at the shelter to keep an eye on Natalie. You arrange for the lads to intercept the shipment at Sovereign Wharf tonight.”

“And the bairn?”

“Bodie seems to have everything in hand...”

“Bodie is not letting you risk your neck without backup,” growled his partner from the doorway. “Mobile ghetto, remember?”

“And who'll look after Zoe?”

“I could get a papoose.”

“Bodie!”

“She could stay in the car.”

“She's not a dog!”

Cowley wearily raised a hand to stop the argument. “I'll look after her until one of you gets back.”

“You? … Sir,” added Bodie belatedly.

“Aye, me. I've babysat worse than this wee one.” He gave them both a significant stare. “So, show me where you've put her things and then get down to that shelter pronto.”

“Yes, sir.”

***

When the shelter opened its doors at 3 o'clock, there were already a dozen people queuing along the pavement. Doyle, unshaven and looking distinctly the worse for wear thanks to his recent sleep deprivation, was third in line. Bodie, sporting matching stubble, leaned against the wall a few places further back.

A white man with a neatly-trimmed dark beard and wearing a chunky fisherman's jumper opened the doors and gave the woman at the front of the line a friendly smile.

“Alright, Janey? Good to see you.”

A baggy white woman with lank, greasy grey hair beamed back at him displaying approximately half a set of yellow and brown teeth. “'ello, Alan,” she said, “Got the 'ot water on for us?”

“Of course we have. In you go, Claire will sort you out.”

She lugged a battered tartan shopping trolley over the doorstep and disappeared inside. Doyle followed a skinny white teenage boy inside and headed for the dining room.

Mismatched tables and chairs were arranged in neat lines and, for now, he had the room to himself. A slim young woman with dark brown shoulder-length hair and creamy-coloured skin stood at the serving hatch, ready to hand out hot drinks.

He glanced over his shoulder, saw only a couple of middle-aged black women and Bodie heading his way, and then walked to the counter.

“All right, Nat?” he said quietly.

She gasped and held on to the edge of the worktop with both hands. “Is she...?” she stuttered.

“She's fine. In safe hands. As are you now. We're here to keep you safe.”

She frowned. “We?”

Doyle inclined his head a little. “See the berk laying on the Scouse as thick as he puts jam on his bread?”

She found Bodie, turning his charm and long-lost accent on the homeless women, and smiled.

“That the tall, dark and beautiful Bodie you used to tell me about then?” She dropped a teabag into a mug and filled it with hot water from the urn besides her.

Doyle pulled a face. “For god's sake don't tell him that. He's insufferable already. We'll watch your back until it's all over and then you and Zoe can get on with your lives.”

He watched her mash the tea, fish out the teabag and pour in some milk. “Her dad not able to take her then?”

She snorted, pushed the mug of tea at him and indicated a plate of biscuits. “Have a malted milk,” she said. “No, that waste of skin buggered off when I was six months gone. We're doing okay without him though. Maniac smugglers aside, anyway.”

Doyle picked up his tea and a biscuit. “Well, you let us know if you see them all right?” He started to make for a small table in a far corner, then turned back to her. “And watch 'im with your biscuits love,” he said quietly, throwing a glance in Bodie's direction. “He doesn't have a stomach – he has a black hole.”

***

Ninety minutes later, Natalie walked past his table, dropped a leaflet about adult education next to his elbow and said, “The two men in black leather jackets who've just sat down near the chocolate machine.”

He picked up the leaflet and pretended to read. “Thanks,” he said. “I'll bear that in mind. Might have a friend who'd like to come along.”

“The more the merrier,” she said and started walking towards the entrance hall.

Bodie was watching from behind a copy of the Mirror. Doyle caught his eye and indicated the two men at the other end of the room. An almost imperceptible nod, a slight change in body position and Bodie was ready.

As Natalie came closer to their table, the two men both reached inside their jackets. Doyle felt his heart skip a beat and was a millisecond away from launching himself across the room when he saw they both held cans of Harp in their hands, not handguns.

He watched Natalie slow and then stop at their table. She smiled and seemed to indicate that they couldn't drink the lager inside the shelter. A prickle ran down Doyle's neck and he forced himself to walk casually towards the conversation.

“Ah, come on love, a man needs more than a cuppa to keep him warm on the streets.” The speaker had blond hair curling out beneath a black woollen hat and brushing the collar of his jacket. He was clean shaven and had cheekbones you could cut yourself on.

Natalie kept smiling. “But you're not on the streets now. If you want a bed for the night, then you have to play by the rules and rule number one is no alcohol and no drugs.”

The second man, olive-skinned and darkly hirsute, rested his hand on her bum and gave it a squeeze. “Perhaps you could keep me warm instead darlin'?”

Her eyes hardened as she stepped out of his grasp. “We have all sorts of rules about appropriate behaviour towards shelter staff,” she said stiffly. “You're breaking more of them than I care to count. I'm going to have to ask you to leave.”

The men stood up and closed in on her. “We're not going anywhere until we've had a little chat, love.”

“There a problem?” Doyle was leaning against the wall behind them.

“Mind your own damn business.” The blond looked him up and down, all jutting hips and dangerous eyes. “Shouldn't you be cottaging in the lavs,  _sweetheart?”_

Doyle twitched his nose. “Nah, not my style,  _petal_. Now, why don't you do as the lady says and leave?”

“You gonna make me?”

“Only if I have to. You could still be smart and walk out of here.”

They laughed like overgrown playground bullies, then the dark haired man swivelled and threw a punch at Doyle's face. Doyle heard Natalie cry out as he ducked and the man's fist hit the wall instead. He barrelled into his attacker's body and flipped him over and on to his back. He landed with a hard smack on the wooden floor and Doyle turned him over while he was still dazed, and cuffed his hands behind his back. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Bodie running full pelt out of the front door, presumably in pursuit of the blond, and then he saw that Natalie was sprawled on the floor, a dark red stain on her apron and a knife still in her belly. One of the black women that Bodie had been charming earlier in the day was moving her hand towards it.

“No!” he said urgently. “Don't touch it – it's keeping her alive.” He moved to check her pulse. It was weak and thready, but at least she had one. He pulled his RT out and demanded an ambulance, then took Natalie's hand in his own.

“Come on, Nat,” he said softly, “Hang in there. There's a young lady at my flat who needs to see her mum.”

She managed a weak squeeze of his fingers and struggled to speak.

“Save your energy, Nat. You can tell me later.”

She opened her eyes and fixed him with a heartbreaking look. “Just take care of her, Ray. Promise me.”

Doyle sighed through his nose. “I promise. But...”

He was interrupted by the ambulance men pounding along the hall and into the dining room. He was brushed aside as they set to work trying to save her life.

***

“You look terrible.”

Doyle shifted on the uncomfortable plastic seat and glared at Bodie.

“How'd it go at the the wharf?”

“Six gentlemen enjoying CI5's hospitality suite tonight. Blondie's still in surgery, getting his arm pinned, but he'll be joining his chums soon enough.”

“What where they trying to sneak in?”

“Not 'what' Ray. 'Who'. They were trafficking young women, well they're just girls really. From the Far East.” The smallest twitch of muscle in his jaw betrayed to Doyle just how angry his partner was.

“How is she?”

It was Bodie's turn to watch the fury get tamped down.

“Alive,” said Doyle dully. “They won't let me in.”

Bodie smiled. “Bet you a fiver you'll be in there in...” he checked his watch, “under five minutes.”

“Don't tell me, one of the nurses is in your little black book?”

Bodie's smug smile broadened and he shook his head.

Doyle was about to make a second guess when a familiar Scots brogue rang down the hall. “Doyle! Bodie!”

Bodie's grin was now rivalling the Cheshire Cat's. Doyle pulled himself up straighter in the chair, ignoring the pain this provoked.

“Here you go, laddie,” said Cowley, handing over a wriggling 9lbs of happy baby to Doyle. “That should help your young lady to a speedy recovery.” He gave his men a hard stare. “I imagine you're going to have your hands full for a while. I can give you both a week's leave for your babysitting, but I expect you in my office first thing next Wednesday, you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” said Bodie.

“Thank you sir,” said Doyle.

“Aye,” said Cowley resignedly. He looked down at the baby, bumping her fists against whatever she could reach, and smiled. “Looks like she's taking after you Bodie.” And then to Doyle, “She's due another feed in about three hours. Good luck, gentlemen.”

***

Doyle sat in the marginally more comfortable seat next to Natalie's bed. She was still unconscious, but breathing unaided and the doctor was confident she'd make a full recovery. Zoe had fallen asleep again and a glance at the clock above the door told him he needed to get her home soon for a feed before bed.

He pushed himself up from the chair one-handed, kissed Natalie's forehead and said, “We'll be back tomorrow.”

He was halfway to the door when it opened and Bodie reappeared.

“You took your time.”

“Had a few things to do. Come on, your carriage awaits.”

***

It wasn't until Zoe had been fed and changed ready for bed that Doyle realised what his partner had been doing for the best part of two hours. A battered trunk had been shifted out of their room to make space for the Moses basket – which now had a proper stand. A small nightlight had been plugged in and the lunatic had rigged a mobile to hang over the basket. A small pile of new baby clothes sat on top of their chest of drawers, with a cuddly rabbit leaning against them.

“Oh, Bodie...” His eyes pricked with tears and his free hand found Bodie's and squeezed. “Here, you put her down for the night.”

He carefully transferred the sleeping baby into his partner's arms and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “You never cease to amaze me sunshine.”

And for once Bodie didn't have a witty comeback. He just looked quietly pleased with himself and, as he laid Zoe down in her bed and tucked the rabbit up against her, started singing softly, "Thula, thula, thula mtwana. Thula, thula, thula mtwana. Ungakhai Umama akekho Umama uzobuya..."

Doyle recognised it as the African lullaby Bodie had once used on him at the height of a particularly nasty fever. Bodie was still singing as he backed slowly away from the basket until he was at Doyle's side. Doyle rested his head on his partner's broad shoulder and wrapped an arm around his waist, as soothed by the singing as the baby.

***

Lying together in bed a little later, Doyle's arm across Bodie's chest once more, he said, "What does it mean? The song?"

A small smile flickered on Bodie's lips and he began to sing again, this time in English instead of Zulu. "Be still, be still, be still, my child. Be still, be still, be still, my child. Do not cry, Mother is absent, Mother shall come back..."

Doyle swallowed hard on the wash of sentiment bubbling up in his chest and pressed a firm kiss to Bodie's shoulder. "That's beautiful."

"Bit like me then?"

"As engagingly modest as ever, Bodie." Doyle shifted in the dark. "So how come you know African lullabies, but nothing about winding babies?"

He felt Bodie shift a little under him.

"Got meself locked up in Malawi once. Woman in the cell next door sang it over and over until I knew it as well as she did." Bodie ran his hand along Doyle's arm. "How come _you_ know so much about looking after babies?"

"Was the oldest in a big family. Got left holding a baby more times than I can remember, especially when me dad came home pissed and knocked Mum into next Sunday." He laughed bitterly. "All _this_ would have the old bastard spinning in his grave."

"He's dead then?"

"As the proverbial parrot."

Bodie stroked Doyle's broken cheekbone. "And that was him too?"

"Made the mistake of trying to protect me mum. He knocked us both into the next week that time."

"Good job he's already dead. Men like that..." he tailed off.

"Men like that frighten each other at night with stories of the Bodie-man who'll break every bone in their body when he catches up with them," said Doyle soothingly. "Come on, mate, we need to sleep while we can. I guarantee she'll be awake and hungry before we are."

"Yeah. All right. Night, Ray."

"Night, Bodie. Thula thula eh?"

He got a soft kiss for his troubles and smiled into the darkness as sleep finally captured them both.

***

**One week later**

“Isn't Bodie here? I wanted to thank him too.”

Doyle remembered the pained look on Bodie's face an hour earlier as he declared he was going out for a run. “Sorry, Nat, duty called. You know how it is. He's loved having her here though.” He risked a glance at Zoe, swallowed and added, “So have I.”

Natalie laid a hand on his arm. “They get right under your skin, don't they? Despite the night feeds and the dirty nappies and the crying for no bloody obvious reason at all.”

He forced a smile on to his face.

“If you want, I could bring her to visit?”

Suddenly the smile took no effort at all. “We'd love you to. And, if you ever need babysitters, you know who to call.”

She laughed. “You're on.” Zoe started to protest noisily in her mother's arms. “I'd better go,” she said. “But thank you, so much, both of you. We'll see you soon, I promise.”

Doyle kissed the foreheads of mother and baby and helped them into the waiting taxi. As it drove away into the night he glanced across the road and saw his loss mirrored on a familiar face. Bodie stood, almost invisible, in the doorway of the dry cleaners, looking like his heart had been ripped out.

When it was obvious that Bodie wasn't going to move, Doyle sighed and crossed the road to join him in the darkened doorway.

"She's going to bring her back to see us. And I volunteered us for some babysitting."

Bodie was silent for a long minute. "It won't be enough."

"Probably not."

"Did you think you'd have kids, Ray? Y'know, before we started this."

Doyle leaned against the door with the trademark casual wantoness that always cracked at least a tiny chink in Bodie's armour. "Yeah, I suppose. Wasn't what I was driven by. Just wanted to find someone who really _got_ me, y'know?"

Bodie relaxed a little, though it took an eye as practised in Bodie-watching as Doyle's to spot it. "Someone who'd love you warts and all, you mean?"

"Who are you calling warty, you sod?"

"Trust you to focus on the negative in that sentence."

"What else was there?"

Bodie turned his head to give Doyle one of his 'really?' looks.

And then the penny dropped.

Doyle grinned. "I love you too, you maniac."

Bodie beamed back at him and leaned, in his own much more solid, arms-folded, way against the wall.

"D'you think we'd be good parents?"

Doyle remembered Bodie's hand on Zoe's cardiganed back, his nightly lullabies, the giggling at bathtime, his patience and pacing at the 2am bawling, the good-humoured changing of nappies, the reading of bedtime stories ("because it's never too soon to start, Ray"), and felt the grief of Zoe's leaving threaten to overwhelm him again.

"I think," he said in a thick voice, "we'd be brilliant. But I don't think Mother Nature's on our side on this one, sunshine."

Under the cover of darkness Bodie reached across to hold Doyle's hand. "There are ways, Ray, if we're sure it's what we want. I mean, for a start we'd have to stop running around the warehouses and rooftops of London getting shot at."

"Not exactly a hardship mate."

"You enjoy it. I enjoy it. Let's face it, we're not in it for the money and the fame. Barely even any bloody glory. But I want more on my headstone than 'George Cowley sometimes approved of him'."

Doyle squeezed the hand that held his own. "As if I'd let them carve that, Bodie..."

Bodie pulled him into his dark alcove and brought his hands up to rest on Doyle's face. "She's opened my eyes, Ray. I want more. I want a family. With you."

He caressed Doyle's cheeks. "You ready to trade in bullets and beatings for nappies and nightfeeds, Angelfish?"

Doyle rested his own hands on Bodie's hips and smiled, "In a heartbeat, Bodie, but on one condition."

He felt Bodie tense beneath his hands - a tension that bled into his voice when he spoke.

"What is it?"

Doyle kissed Bodie's lips tenderly, before muttering in his ear. "You're the one who's telling the Cow."

Bodie barked a laugh in Doyle's ear and roughhoused him back across the doorway. "Deal," he said. "Perhaps I should ask him to be godfather while I'm at it?"

Doyle conjured a mental image of the three of them standing round a church font while a vicar dropped water on a baby's head and laughed. "I can't think of anyone better."

Bodie pulled him upright and back towards their flat. "What do you think of Jo?"

Doyle paused on the pavement, frowning. "Joanna? Didn't she marry that twat from the City?"

Bodie looked at him. "Yes, she did. And divorced him because he was a _cheating_ twat. But I meant as a name. Joseph for a boy, Joanna for a girl..."

Doyle laughed; that dirty cackle Bodie could never get enough of, not in a dozen lifetimes with this man. "Fine," he said. "Jo's fine. Now all we need to do is find ourselves a baby..."

Bodie rubbed his hands together gleefully. "Shall we dig my little black book out of storage first, or yours?"

Doyle started trotting up the steps towards the front door. "Mine," he said, pushing the door open. "My taste in birds was always better than yours..."

He broke into a sprint as he heard Bodie's muttered "You..." and the sound of fine Italian footwear pounding up the stone steps behind him. He made it to the first half landing before Bodie caught him and pinned him against the wall.

"I'd go as far as to say my taste is still better than yours, sunshine."

A tiny smile curled the corner of Bodie's lips.

"Takes more than flattery to get round me, Ray."

Doyle grinned. "I know that. Why d'you think I keep an emergency swiss roll in the flat?"

Bodie's eyes widened in mock surprise. "There's swiss roll up there?"

"Yep. And if you kill me, you'll never find it, so..."

Bodie made a show of thinking it over and took his weight off his partner.

"Lay on, Macduff," he said with a theatrical flourish of his arm.

"Macduff can sod off," said Doyle. "You're the only one I lay on now, Bodie."

"Quite right too," said Bodie opening the door to the flat. "Now, find that bloody swiss roll and your little black book so we can choose the mother of our child."

***

**One year later**

George Cowley stood at the railings, watching his best team in action together for the first time in weeks. The new recruits had been politely taking it in turns to take on their trainers. And quickly found themselves on the ground, winded and bruised. It had finally dawned on the six young men that they would have to be less than gentlemanly and they had abandoned the one-on-one fighting.

It had improved their chances, but not by much. Three of them were down and out. One was fighting dirty - Cowley smiled - but his opponent had been fighting harder and dirtier battles than this for many years. Going part-time had done nothing to dull his edge. The remaining pair were taking on the bigger man - who was moving with familiar ease and grace to duck and block and score his own hits.

In less than three minutes there were six recruits groaning on the floor and two extremely smug trainers raining down dry wit and sarcasm on their prey.

Jo shifted in her godfather's arms and he gave her an affectionate smile before calling down to the room below, "I'll have to babysit more often so our new teams can enjoy the benefit of your joint experience..."

The bodies on the floor groaned as one. Doyle chewed on his smile. Bodie just grinned.

"... however I'm expected at Downing Street in half an hour, so perhaps one of you could come and reclaim your daughter?"

Doyle nodded, clapped Bodie on the shoulder and ran up the stairs to resume parenting duties. "Thank you, sir," he said as Jo was carefully transferred into his arms.

"No, thank _you,_ Doyle," said Cowley. "Bring her back soon eh?"

"Bodie was thinking of starting her on the assault course in a couple of weeks. When her neck muscles can support her own head weight, y'know."

"Aye, well until then, take good care of her."

"She's got the best protection CI5 can offer," said Doyle, looking down at Bodie, who was cheerfully chivvying the battered recruits back on to their feet.

Cowley's gaze travelled from Bodie to Doyle, cradling their baby with a tenderness that surprised the rest of the squad, but not their commander. He'd been sorry to lose them from the front line, but between them they would lick the new teams into shape. He had to admit it had all worked out quite well in the end...

He laid a hand on Doyle's shoulder, "That she has, laddie, that she has."

 

A huge thank you to the amazing Minori_k for this adorable artwork!

**Author's Note:**

> [Bodie's lullaby](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T3HYJW0FDXM)


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